After The End
by JusticeStrauss
Summary: Beatrice Baudelaire is left in the care of the mysterious R., a Duchess who may not be all that she seems. A 'Mr. Snicket' is found dead, but may have known more about Beatrice's siblings than she. Her former guardian Phil is on trial for murder, but has never held a gun in his life. Can Beatrice connect the dots in time to save lives, if not just her own?
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

Dreams have, for many years, served as a source of both great inspiration and great anguish for writers. The duplicity of dreams is a peculiar phenomenon, largely because a normal person may have nightmares so garish that they dare not sleep another wink for at least a week, then later experience dreams so euphoric that they feel they would much rather sleep their whole life through. An acquaintance of mine has written an opus on the topic, and in one notable volume stated quite plainly that dreams are a reflection of one's life. I myself find dreams of little pleasure, and thus thoroughly prove this assertion, as my life could be simply described as a nightmare.

However, there are some people in our duplicitous world of ecstasy and agony who receive dreams entirely unrelated to their own lives- so queer that one may feel they are observing a movie of the life of someone entirely unfamiliar. Someone once entirely unfamiliar to me experienced this very type of dream, witnessing an event she could not possibly have faced herself. This dream I was very familiar with, it being a reality for me and the people I care most dearly about in the world. You yourself may be familiar with this dream if you unfortunately happened upon a sinister opus in your local library or bookstore known as A Series of Unfortunate Events. You may have hoped that the terrible lives of the Baudelaire orphans were just a dream, a dream you hopefully have tried to forget. Alas, it was not so. Now, after a good many years of nightmares and solitude, I must open once again the morose tale of orphaned children to you. Dearest reader, I sincerely hope you go on pretending this tale is a dream and promptly close this book, and wake up.

Beatrice Baudelaire stood in the high tiers of what had to be a circus tent. Far below her was scene of savage mob brutality; men and women of all ages were pushing and shoving one another, occasionally falling into a vast abyss in the distance. Beatrice could not be sure what this abyss contained, but she could distinctly hear the roars of some menacing beast that must be within. Extending into the abyss was a single wooden plank, where a lone cowering woman, dressed in an entirely ridiculous array of shawls and jewelry, was crying out.

"Baudelaires! I'm sorry! Please!"

Her words gave Beatrice cause to scan the surroundings for a glimpse of her lost siblings, but to no avail. The gypsy-like woman continued to plead desperately for help from the absent orphans until from the mob's violence, a tall woman emerged with a very pronounced smirk. Turning towards the quivering other, she walked in sharp stilettos towards her, leading to even more frantic screams and pleas. The taller female leaned her poised figure down and placed a perfectly manicured finger to the gypsy's lips.

"Say hello to Beatrice for me." she whispered.

Then with almost giant like force, the woman shoved the gypsy in the stomach, knocking her into the abyss, where her screams could be heard no more. Turning back towards the stunned ten year old, the remaining occupant of the plank stared directly at Beatrice and smiled wider, placing a finger to her own lips.

Beatrice screamed and desperately attempted to wake herself up.

She succeeded, only to be affronted by the very real face of the murderess: her own guardian, R.

"Hello Beatrice." she whispered with a smile.

***  
Beatrice's bedroom was a film store enthusiast's version of heaven. She plastered every wall with some sort of photograph, leaving gaps only for posters from her favorite films. Ever since she was a young baby, she struggled with remembering the look of events. The faces of her older siblings, the Baudelaires, never could solidify in her mind. She once begged Phil to take her to the City Archives to see the old the Daily Punctillios in which her siblings once featured, but her guardian told her that the archives were kept in a small town in the suburbs, and was likely the victim of one of the many fires that plagued the region.

Thus, once moved in to her new home, Beatrice saved enough pocket change from odd jobs with the kitchen staff (she was quite the skilled carrot chopper) to purchase a small camera. This was a wish she only shared with her driver, Mr. Romero, who would take her into the city whenever R. was indisposed. She asked him his advice about what types of film to purchase and what type of lenses provided the most clarity. Mr. Romero, a kindly man with a face weathered by time and a past as a beach-tourism model, was most gracious to guide her toward the purple device now stowed in a box under her desk.

Sitting at the foot of her cherrywood four-poster, she scanned the walls for evidence of a woman like the gypsy in her dream. She learned in school what a gypsy was, but she was certain she had never seen a living, breathing one. She was also fairly certain that she had never been to a carnival. R. hated the suburbs and their crude entertainment. Was this a memory from her childhood, from the Baudelaires? As she continued to look at the black and white portraits above her desk, her eyes landed on one of R. Dressed in a sequined gown that spread like an inverted peeled banana to the floor, she was stunning. The eyes, so piercing and playful, seemed to challenge Beatrice's thoughts. She gasped again, taken aback from this image as much as she had been from seeing R. in the flesh moments ago.

After several silent moments of composure, Beatrice, certain it only was anxiety that drove her to such ridiculous thoughts, trekked from her room down the great marble staircase to the R.'s elaborate breakfast hall. R., being Duchess of Winnipeg, naturally had a great number of beautiful rooms in her mansion, but it was the breakfast hall that was Beatrice's favorite. An ornately decorated mahogany table sat square in the hall, adorned with festive and seasonal flowers. Immaculately polished marble statues. Top quality (and undoubtedly foreign) drapes. And the candles! R. had a distinct affection for scented candles; only the most fashionable decorated the mantles and table. Yet, each scent brought back memories of the smells Beatrice had lived her early childhood around: exotic flowers and beach wildlife. It made her feel, for a few fleeting moments, like she was safely back with her siblings, enjoying a light breakfast of wheat toast or bran.

"Darling, are you feeling alright? You looked terribly flushed this morning." startling Beatrice once more out of her fantasy, R. gracefully walked into the room. R. was a beautiful woman, who no doubt would have been quite the scarlet woman in her youth. Black hair fell to her shoulders, and her entire manner exuded an essence of luxury. At times Beatrice felt R. to be rather vain, especially in her selection of clothing – this morning a green tennis outfit entirely too tight for a woman of her age – yet there was an unmistakable grace to her that Beatrice had to admire.

"I'm fine, just a little shaken. I had a bad dream last night."

R. sipped gently on her drink – a highly fashionable wheat grass smoothie – then sat down at the end of the table. "Terrible things, nightmares. Would you like one of my nyquils? They put me to sleep without a single thought."

Beatrice politely declined the drug offer and joined R. at the table. "R., are there any circuses nearby?"

R. sipped on her wheat grass once again, but Beatrice thought she could notice a look of alarm on the other side of the glass. Before she could be sure however, R had turned away to gaze out one of the windows.

"What a queer question. There was a circus if you like to call it, miles away from here of course, down Rarely Ridden Road, a nasty place darling never visit there, known as Caligari Carnival. I had the misfortune to happen by this carnival once with my boyfriend of the time – but it is dreadful darling, don't think of it for a moment longer." R. snapped her fingers for a butler to deliver Beatrice's breakfast, but she looked significantly less pleased when she turned back to face her ward. "Now I have hired a new tennis coach to instruct me, as I have heard through the grapevine that the sport is all the rage at the moment. So if you need me at all today I'll be in the backyard, alright darling?"

Beatrice politely nodded. R. seemed to have a new hobby for every day of the year; fashion seemed to change by the hour in this house. What was queerer still was that these hobbies never required her to leave the Winnipeg mansion. Without further words, R. swept herself up from the table and out the door, blowing a kiss in Beatrice's direction.

With a sigh, the Baudelaire orphan tucked into her food and mused about just what she could do to fill her day. She had been to the library perhaps a dozen times since she'd arrived, but days absorbed in novels could only satisfy her so much. Still, she mused, it was better than Prufrock Prep.

As the bored orphan meandered out of her favorite den, her thoughts drifted to that soulless institution called Prufrock Preparatory School. I have visited the school on many occasions, both the burnt remains that had been the site of the original school, and its current emanation. Both are truly ghastly. One only has to stare at the tomblike buildings, or hazard a glance at the entryway's engraved motto, 'Memento Mori – Remember you will die,' to feel the evil that oozes from every concrete pore. During the time that Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire – Beatrice's older siblings – had attended the school, it was run by a snide and cruel vice principal by the name of Nero, who enjoyed playing his violin awfully to the poor students. The rest of the staff was an alarmingly haphazard assortment of characters of whom included a bank robber, a bananaphile, a deceased sibling of my own, and another dead person I'm not at all keen on discussing. Following the kidnapping and forced enslavement of the entire student body, and of course the murder of the school's entire administration, Prufrock Preparatory was promptly closed. Then, just for extra good measure, it was torched.

One would think no-one would dare reconsider reopening this blight of a book in the opus of academic learning, but there are those out there who are just plain mean.

Only a year later, the owner of Lucky Smells Lumbermill, a short but entirely tedious man only known as Sir, felt that principalship was the logical next step to take after managerial duties. Closer to his corporation he built a new Prufrock Preparatory, which was no less ridiculous than the original. Beatrice, during her stint at the school, never once saw Sir's face. Due to terrible scarring the new principal constantly kept it covered – a product of the fire he had only just managed to escape at Hotel Denouement. Beatrice endured not a violin, but a school ran by a parsimonious simpleton. The word parsimonious here means 'cheapskate' and simpleton means 'total idiot.' To cut spending, the floors of the classrooms were dirt. To reduce resource needs, the only classes taught were arithmetic (which only required a nonchalant and monotone voice) and technology, which was done at Lucky Smells (and involved what by any other definition would be 'hard labor.')

It was the greatest blessing of young Beatrice's life when after five years of torture; she was rescued by R. one afternoon only a year previous. The news that she could return to actual civilization in the city was the best gift she had been given since before her siblings' disappearances. _Now_, Beatrice mused to herself as she started absentmindedly climbing the stairs_, that is enough nostalgia for right now_.

Over the years, and in my lifetime the word 'years' certainly holds a lengthy girth to it, I have been through many people's attics. Often I live in people's attics when I am a guest, or more frequently, hiding from the authorities. An attic is an eerie sort of place, one that a person may avoid for many years after first storing things inside. For you see, attics house memories. Memories, like dreams, are duplicitous creatures that can cause the remembering person a great deal of pleasure or discomfort. Attics are places where memories can be shelved and left till more appropriate times. I once lived in the attic of a woman named Madame Lulu and discovered a document that indicated she had failed her clairvoyance exams. When I politely inquired with her later about the matter, this shelved memory clearly resurfaced at the wrong time, and I was thrown out of the house.

Beatrice never lived in an attic, (and to be honest, she had to admit she never lived in a proper house before) and thus was as unaware as I was of the dangers of memories when after an hour of strolling through the halls and up the staircases of Winnipeg Manor she stumbled upon a rope hanging from the ceiling. It was brilliantly odd. One must pull on things which are brilliantly odd.

The musty room revealed to her held a cornucopia of shelved memories. Boxes lined every wall, and the floor was covered with a mixture of Winnipeg memorabilia amidst absolute junk.

Clearly this wasn't R.'s first try at tennis, for right in front of the trap door were three broken rackets. Old dresses hung on a rack in the corner, as well as what appeared to be an overflowing trunk of costumes.

_Should I really be here_? was the question Beatrice asked of herself, and I'm afraid no one was there to tell her the answer, which was less "No" and more like "You need to get the hell out of this house altogether."

Curiosity got the better of her. Especially when she saw a box out of the corner of her eye with a series of initials she hadn't seen or heard of in a while. A series of initials more unfortunate than my entire opus on the Baudelaires. V.F.D.

With a glance over her shoulder, she quickly scampered over to the VFD box. It too was as old as the days, and appeared to have been unopened for quite some time. With a tug she yanked the cobweb covered lid off and discovered the untouched memories inside. Atop the pile laid a newspaper article, which Beatrice began to read.

**Annual Winnipeg Ball A Winner!**  
By reporter Geraldine Julienne

_At last night's spectacular Winnipeg Masked Ball, attended by anyone who was anyone (which does not include me apparently, which was utterly ridiculous and entirely insulting as I am a very distinguished journalist) has been declared the party of the year by a number of interviewed passersby. The actual events of the ball are highly secret, which would suggest suspect activities, but since everyone was wearing beautiful clothes I could hardly think they were part of any dirty organization I've written about in other articles..._

Beatrice raised her eyebrows. _What awful writing_, she thought aloud. Oh Beatrice. If only you knew.

_…..The only photo I was able to receive was one I found left on the ground outside the Winnipeg mansion, depicting the Duchess herself, as well as two uninteresting individuals of indeterminable age._

The photo that followed indeed featured three people, a man and two women. The male had his arm wrapped around both women on either of side of him, and had a foolish grin on his face. The woman to his left was a fairly tall woman with blonde hair and a brilliant smile, whose face looked almost identical to Violet Baudelaire. Yet, even this peculiar coincidence did not distract Beatrice from fervently gazing at the woman to the man's right, whom the caption beneath identified as _'R., Duchess of Winnipeg'_.

This woman looked nothing like R. Nothing at all. Neither, for that matter, did the green mansion behind her look anything like the mansion she was in now. No, this was entirely different person altogether. As Beatrice anxiously laid the photo back into the box, she began to think she unpacked memories which were never meant to resurface. Ever.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

Beatrice never walked faster in her life. She felt the act of running away from R.'s house would be all too suspect to the neighbors, so instead she was striding down the sidewalk with an occasional leap of anticipation. I have yet to be a ten year old girl, but I cannot see why Beatrice would assume this was any less incriminating.

The thoughts running through Beatrice's mind were as spastic as her walking. She did not know what to trust from this article – who was that woman pretending to be R.? It must have been the mistake of the writer; Geraldine Julienne seemed an entirely unreliable journalist, it could not have been real. Yet, why was there also the discrepancy with the venue?

"Oh blasted bother!" she shouted suddenly, involuntarily jumping in the air. The woman walking her dog across the street gave Beatrice a stern glare and she blushed furiously. No, she was being ridiculous. This all had to be incorrect. R. had been nothing but wonderful since the day she had adopted Beatrice.

At moments like this, it is appropriate for me to apply a very mysterious and often complicated writing technique known as a 'flashback'. I feel bad breaking the flow of this very important string of events to incorporate a part of the story that may seem irrelevant. Nevertheless, I have learned over my many tumultuous years that everything – past, present or prophetically declared by a woman you thought was a fraud – is relevant.

"Can the midget Beatrice come to my office now!"

Dazed, Beatrice woke from one of her many in-class naps to the sound of Vice-Principal Sir's bark over the loudspeaker. She looked up to see her entire class staring at her with cunning smiles. No-one got called to Sir's office unless they had broken half a dozen rules at once, and punishment from the vice-principal was always the same: one week's work in the sawmill with nothing but gum for meals. She could not imagine what she had done to infuriate Sir; _everyone_ found arithmetic unfathomably dull.

The boy closest to her, a sickening little fellow named Paul Jenkins, pointed at Beatrice and scoffed. "See, I knew it! All orphans are criminals, just like my mom told me."

The girl next to him, an altogether immature brat named Sally Shoenboom chimed in as well. "She's a bad egg and we all know it. I bet she's going to burn down this school one day, just like those other orphans, the Baudelaire murderers!"

Beatrice cringed at the mention of her siblings. When she'd been enrolled at Prufrock Preparatory five years previous, her guardian of the time, a man named Phil, thought it best to not mention she was related to the Baudelaires. Most people still thought the Baudelaires were to blame for terrible things that had happened after they had left Mr. Poe at the Village of Fowl Devotees. Beatrice always wanted to tell snide people like Paul and Sally off for saying stupid things about the Baudelaires; they were the most noble people Beatrice had ever known and they would never commit things like arson or murder.

With her head down, she exited her dreary classroom for Sir's office at the other end of the campus. Above her, smoke seemed to float surreptitiously at the top of the buildings, gracing the school with a complimentary air of grayness. Strange things happen at the sites of smoke clouds. Almost all of them are dreadful.

When Beatrice arrived at Sir's office, she reached up high to try and press the buzzer. Sir had a distinct distrust of people he referred to as 'midgets' - a brand of people from which almost all the students at Prufrock Prep were apparently drawn. In an effort to assert his supremacy over these midgets, Sir had his office buzzer positioned almost six feet off the ground - and when a young student like Beatrice had trouble reaching it, he would turn on the intercom above the door and laugh a cold wheezy laugh at their misfortune. Today however, no matter how many times she jumped to reach the button, no intercom laughing was to be heard over the speakers. She could however, hear the distinct sound of things being banged around.

"Hello! Can anyone help me get inside please?" Beatrice shouted up towards the crack at the top of the door. There was continued clatter for a few more seconds, than silence. At last, the door creaked open, and a slightly disheveled man stood in the frame with a small smile.

"Um, hello there. Sorry about the wait, I was just...helping Sir move some of his office furniture around." The man subtly tried to straighten his askew tie as he talked, and opened the door further for Beatrice. Beatrice vaguely remembered the man from her first day at Prufrock Prep: he was a timid man named Charles, who was the school secretary.

"Did you, um, have an appointment? Sir doesn't really like being interrupted..."  
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "Was I interrupting? I thought Sir called me to his office a few minutes ago?"

Charles toyed with the bottom of his tie and mumbled something along the lines of _It's only ever a few minutes isn't it, _before he looked up again and said in a more pleasant tone, "Well if he called you I will let him know you are here."

Charles knocked a few times on Sir's door and poked his head in. After a minute of whispered discussion and furious hand gestures on Charles' part, the secretary stood aside and nodded for Beatrice to enter.

The memory began to glide more quickly in Beatrice's mind: Sir declaring quite emphatically that the midget Beatrice had earned him a delicious supply of Cuban cigars from a beautiful and wealthy benefactor who had taken an interest in the girl – that the very woman would be present in only a few days' time to inspect the girl and decide if she was worthy of adoption. Beatrice was stunned, how had anyone even found out about her? Was not Phil's plan to make her existence more discreet until he could find means of clearing her siblings' names? How could she possibly accept an adoption offer when she had perfectly capable guardians who were simply on an extended leave of absence?

Beatrice pulled a Winnipeg napkin from breakfast out of her pocket. Little had she known that her potential guardian owned not only a mansion, but a stake in an entire region of the city! A Rolls Royce traversed up the school's gravel driveway just under the dire entryway, opening its doors to reveal a woman with shades the size of pancakes and a _foulard _– a word which here means a very fancy and very French scarf – tied around her thin neck. Everything about R. exuded wealth, status, and splendor. She had yet to hire Mr. Romero. Back then, her driver was a broad hunchbacked man named Hugo who shaded his mistress with a magnificently embroidered umbrella, although there was a noticeable lack of rain. When she entered Sir's office she extended her perfectly manicured hand out to Sir to kiss, while gently fanning herself with an emerald handkerchief. It was all very Victorian, Beatrice had to admit, and for those of us with slightly longer life spans, mildly condescending.

"Well are you not the most delightful little darling I have ever seen?" R. had said, the moment she laid eyes on Beatrice. The young girl did not know how to respond apart from "Thank you." R. looked her up and down, a feat which few women could generally achieve. Beatrice, even at ten, was abnormally tall for her age, nearly a foot taller than Sir himself. It deeply impressed Beatrice that this elegant woman was both effortlessly beautiful _and_ the tallest person in the room, but felt no need to apologize for either trait.

"So I take it that you will be buying her then?" Sir said from the desk. Beatrice took a step back – was she being sold like a figurine in a china shop? R., reacting to Beatrice's shock, quickly clarified.

"No, no darling, this is not some sort of _transaction_." Her peculiar accent, a sort of elevated southern drawl, slid the last word all the way down her tongue. "I am here merely to gauge your interest in potentially relocating to the city with me. I am an old friend of your parents and quite a renowned philanthropist in the city. A very friendly dilettante, you might say." With the final words, she turned and fanned her face, obscuring her left eye to everyone but Beatrice, to whom she gave a pronounced wink.

Beatrice almost gasped, but restrained herself at the last moment, putting a hand to her mouth. It was the signal Phil had told her to look for: the call sign of _V.F.D. _The day Phil dropped her off at the academy; he told her that should he become incapacitated, someone from the organization would find her. They would use one of the many codes Phil taught her each night. With coy self-aggrandizement, this woman had secretly signaled that she was to be Beatrice's next guardian. Yet, had anyone else noticed the clue?

Being the principal and secretary respectively of a boarding school, Sir and Charles paid no attention to anything of importance. They were more engaged with looking at the ceiling, the grouting pattern of which allowed them respite from looking at one another.

"But darling, look here; you already know who I am."

The woman stretched out her hand and took hold of Beatrice's fingers. Her palms were soft and cold, like the underside of recently used bar of soap. She gently rubbed her thumb against the engraved gold ring Beatrice wore, one of the few treasures she still held from her time with the Baudelaires. Shining in the center of the ring was a single letter, a cursive R, whose tail rolled over the side and around the ring's edge.

"This ring once belonged to my mother, the late-Duchess of Winnipeg. It once belonged to me, and now it appears, it has found its way to you." She smiled and leaned her lips down to kiss the ring.

"You may call me, R."

Had Beatrice been at a normal school, one where she had friends, a competent teacher, and real courses, she might have hesitated longer in her decision to leave with R. She might have stopped and spent a few more moments examining her gorgeous gown, which actually fit the woman quite poorly. She would have noticed that R.'s perfume, the scent of lilacs, was too overpowering, as if it were covering some more sinister smell.

Yet, most egregious of all possible faults missed by Beatrice's rose-tinted observations of her future guardian, was the woman's smile. Beatrice had spent almost her whole life with Phil, a man whose own optimism ensured he smile was eternally imbued with effervescence, a word which here means "actual enthusiasm." There were teeth and upturned lips on R.'s face, but her smile was anything but effervescent. It was the smile of an animal that has just captured its prey, the smirk of good fortune. R. was fortunate because after so many years, she had at last found Beatrice Baudelaire, although most certainly not the same Beatrice Baudelaire she first pursued.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

If you have ever lived in The City – neither a thirty thousand person town posing as a 'city,' nor an eight million, five borough monstrosity asserting itself as anything but an independent state, but rather _The _City – then you know that the 'Fashion District' almost never contains anything fashionable. Situated in prime real estate in the middle of a bustling transit area, the 'Fashion District' is a medley of gargantuan towers and shady storefronts, hiding morally ambiguous capitalists. The Fashion District is not far from The City's Financial District, an equally austere locale, and during lunchtimes one can often find young bankers trek from their offices to the chain coffee shops which have taken the Fashion District hostage.

One of the worst of these mud-slinging money manager haunts was Cosmobills, a coffee shop that specialized in drinks which disguised the taste of caffeine with lots of sugar and 'flavors.' The very same day that R. brought Beatrice back to her mansion, she stopped by Cosmobills to purchase ten pounds of Cosmobills 'Enriched' Coffee Product. Almost every day since, Beatrice would see R. with a bright blue cup with the chain's logo – a centaur pointing an arrow at the moon – acquired via some servant dispatched to the city hub.

Without meaning to, Beatrice in her frantic state had directed herself right to the little café, perched under an egregiously long awning. _I need to stop_, she said quietly to herself. _I need to do what Phil always taught me: stop, breathe, and evaluate the evidence in front of me before I jump to conclusions_. She took a few cautious steps towards the door (_Breathe, Beatrice, breathe_) and then slowly took a few more, shaking off her anxiety like a dog discarding rain from its mane.

Inside, Cosmobills was a bustling factory. Gray suit clad men and women were lined from the door towards the register then lined in reverse back towards the door to pick up their beverage. It was a gigantic U, with a small stretch of prepackaged products and a newspaper rack in the center.

"Are you getting in line or not little girl?" a stern looking man in a bowler hat glared at the hesitant Beatrice, who was still standing in the doorway.

"Um, I guess..." she looked around for any sign of a chair, or resting spot, "…I guess, not?" The man took the liberty of pushing Beatrice out of the way so he and the five people behind him who had materialized seemingly out of thin air could join the queue.

Beatrice was suddenly stranded in the center aisle of the café, confronted with the rack of _Daily Punctillios._ She steadied herself and prepared to turn right around and push the aggressive bankers back on her way out, but a headline on the left hand side of the cover page gave her pause.

**_Obituaries_**

_Lemony Snicket, Author and Fugitive_

Never in her life had she ever seen someone else with the last name "Snicket." Her mother, Kit, never left any diary or letters; Beatrice barely knew her mother's age when she died giving birth to her. She remembered Violet telling her that Kit had a brother, Jacques, who was a brave man and died at the Village of Fowl Devotees while trying to find the Baudelaires. Who was this Lemony?

The article, or more precisely, the obituary, continued:

_Lemony Snicket, author of A Series of Unfortunate Events, the purportedly true chronicles of the Baudelaire children, was reported dead today by anonymous and possibly unreliable sources. His age was given as "tall, with brown eyes." He leaves no known survivors._

_Born on a cattle farm rather than in a hospital, Snicket had a promising scholarly career, beginning with a job as a theatrical critic – in all senses of the word – for this very newspaper, followed by the publication of several promising anthropomorphic treatises, a word which here means "very long reports." This period of professional contentment – and, allegedly, unrequited love – ended when news broke of his involvement with V.F.D. and the accompanying scandal was reported in these very pages._

_Mr. Snicket became a fugitive from justice and was rarely seen in public, and then usually from the back. Several manhunts – and, due to a typographical error, womanhunts – proved fruitless. At last the Baudelaires' story, and his, appears to be over._

_As no one seems to know when, where, how, and why he died, there will be no funeral services. A burial may be scheduled later this year._

"Little girl, if you are going to stand there are read the newspaper, you might as well buy it and GO." Beatrice's attention broke from the shocking words of the article to look at the barista at the register side of the U who was pointing at her. He wore a bright blue apron and a blue Cosmobills cap, which covered his messy mop of blond curls poking out in all directions. "It's two dollars, although it is thirty cents off if you buy a jumbo Mochalicious Latte."

There was no way she could leave this behind. She shoved her hand into the pocket of her dress and tossed the barista a couple of bills, before tucking the paper under her arm and sprinting out into the street. _There was someone chronicling the Baudelaires? Someone who knew what they did? _How had no one ever told her about this so-called "Series of Unfortunate Events?" Why had she never seen it in the Prufrock library, or in the window of one of the many city bookshops? More importantly, how had this Lemony Snicket never sought to contact her, or R. or Phil about the story?

_But now he's dead_. Beatrice couldn't think of worse timing, which she knew was a terrible thought to have about someone's death, but it was the honest truth. She had to take this news back to R. Surely she would know about this man and his connection to her siblings. Surely she would have some answers.

_But what if she is not who she says she is? _She was conflicted. If R. really did know about Snicket, she would have told Beatrice. She needed to investigate this mystery more on her own – she still had five hours before R. would expect her home for dinner. The best course of action was the most logical, as Phil always said. She needed to go to the one place where she could find answers about Mr. Snicket and his research, the one place any well-read and intuitive individual would start their investigation. The City Public Library.

_If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other book._

Beatrice let the ominous resonance of these words sink in as she held the library's only copy of _The Bad Beginning_. It was the first of two books about the Baudelaires that were available, the second being a green bound volume entitled _The Reptile Room_.

(Beatrice, I am sure, would like me to note that she found these titles to be frustratingly reductive. The death of one's parents, as both she and I can attest to, is not merely bad. It is unbearably awful. It is a sadness which never fully goes away, which binds to your bones and mutes the warmth of world each and every day. In my defense, my publisher advised me against my original titles for Book One and Two – _Murder Most Menacing _and _Silencing of the Scientist – _for being both too revealing and inappropriate for children.)

She sped through the first volume, stopping only to get a drink of water and to wipe the tears from her eyes. There were painful details here, details which the Baudelaires kept from her when she was a young child. When Count Olaf, the Baudelaires' guardian, revealed his evil plan to marry Violet and steal the children's fortune, Beatrice was aghast. She knew stories, of course, of Olaf's treachery. Yet, this was far more sinister than anything for which Phil or her siblings had prepared her. As she quickly moved on to Book Two, she nearly fell off her seat at the point where Olaf threatened Klaus with a knife; she was dumbstruck and petrified when the Baudelaires walked into the Reptile Room to find Dr. Montgomery Montgomery (the children's guardian at the time) dead.

Beatrice had completely lost track of time. When at last she reached the end of the siblings' second episode, she looked up from the book into the face of the librarian. She was sitting directly across from her at the large reading room table Beatrice occupied. The woman was thin as a rail, with horn rimmed glasses perched at the very end of her elongated nose. She was wearing a pitch black dress, and her grey hair was done up neatly in a bun above her head. Beatrice could not help but notice the tiny details too: how the woman had small lips which were free of makeup and how her eyes seemed to sink into her face. The librarian accepted Beatrice's gaze for a few moments, then spoke.

"It is quite a terrible story, is it not?"

Beatrice nodded. "Terrible does not even begin to describe it."

The woman gave her a small smile. "Do you know that you are the only person who has read these books in the last two months? I expected, what with the death notice in today's paper that a few interested parties would want to get their hands on these books. You are the only one who came. In fact," she blinked a few times and looked down at the table, "in fact, you are the only person who came into this library at all today."

Beatrice did not know what to do with this information. "Um, sorry?" she offered, trying to give the woman a sympathetic smile.

"Oh it is a blessing you are here my dear, a blessing, do not apologize. I get lonely you see, and when you walked in today, you reminded me of some children I used to know, a long time ago. Then you picked up these books! It brought a lot of sad memories back, that is all. Look at me, I must be frightening you with all my silly talk!"

The librarian got up from her seat and began to walk towards the circulation desk. "It is nearly six o'clock, I should check your books out so I can close up for the day. Would you like to take those home with you?"

Beatrice was about to say yes, but thought better of it. She was still unsure about R. and thought it best to avoid bringing books about her siblings – books of which her guardian neglected to inform her – into the mansion. "No, I am ok."

"Alright dear, if you are sure. It is nice to see someone caring about those poor children, especially now that Mr. Snicket is no longer around to write about them."

"Did you know him at all?" Beatrice asked.

"I never met him personally, but I was friendly with the doorman at his office building. 'A queer one, that Mr. Snicket' he would always say, 'Always in and out, meeting people at exotic sounding restaurants or on a bike to some far off town for research.' He was the only one who kept looking for those children, even after everything that happened."

"Would you happen to have his address?" Beatrice asked.

"Whatever for, dear? The poor man died today."

Beatrice knew she had to be guarded in her response. This woman was yet pieced together that Beatrice had any relation to the Baudelaires or Mr. Snicket for that matter, and she wanted to avoid arousing suspicion as much as possible. However, she still had an hour before dinner and if she could visit Mr. Snicket's office, she might be able to grab one more pre-bedtime clue to ever-expanding mystery of his role in her siblings' lives.

"I wanted to leave a note of thanks for such a wonderful set of stories. Maybe on his window, you know?" It was the best she could do. However, the librarian looked almost in tears herself.

"How moving, how grand! Oh child, you are truly a light in the darkness of this dreary day. Of course you should write him a note. Here, let me write down the address for you." She pulled out a small notepad and ripped a page out. She scribbled the address down, went to give it to Beatrice, and then pulled back.

"Will you do me a favor dear? Will you…will you leave a note on my behalf as well?"

Beatrice was tapping her hand against her side, begging this woman to let her go. "Of course! What would you like me to say?"

"Just, 'Thanks for including me. Love, J.S.' That is all."

Beatrice registered the peculiarity of the librarian's statement, but needed to head out immediately, so politely nodded to the request. The librarian beamed and passed the address to the girl. "Best of luck, love. I hope to see you again soon!"

Beatrice barely made a wave gesture by the time she was out the door.

Someone had replaced the fire hydrants with miniature street lamps on Dim Avenue. The light announced itself like a flag at half-mast, a drooping declaration of melancholy, a step removed from the nihilism of the dark. Mr. Snicket's office was located in one of the dreariest buildings on the block, a grey cinder block tower which confounded identity yet refused to blend into its background. The light stumps directing Beatrice to the building threatened to extinguish at every step, casting her into an eternal nighttime she was deeply afraid of never escaping. When she at last reached the front door, she prayed someone would answer the buzzer quickly.

She had pressed the operator button, hoping that there would be some sort of doorman on the first floor who could give her answers about Mr. Snicket. Yet there was no response. This friendly office gatekeeper of whom the librarian spoke was nowhere to be found. She buzzed a few more times and nearly gave up on the whole endeavor. Then she had a better idea. Why ask the doorman about a dead man's comings and goings, when you can ask a neighbor?

The owner of Number 1311 answered almost immediately.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Beatrice already had her excuse at the ready. "Hello sir! My name is Beatrice and I work for the _Daily Punctillio_. Could I trouble you for a moment of your time to talk about the late Mr. Lemony Snicket?

There was a pause. "The _late_ Mr. Snicket did you say?"

"Yes sir. I'm sorry, were you not aware?"

"Did he die twenty minutes ago?"

"Um, no sir, I believe he died a few days ago."

The man on the speaker paused again, as if he were making up his mind about something. "I usually do not talk to journalists as I find them untrustworthy by nature. I mean no disrespect. Then again, your paper is frequently disrespectful to a great number of my associates. But maybe you should come up here."

The elevator in 346 Dim Avenue was what one could expect from the bleak building and its equally dreary street. It was the approximate square footage of a coffin. Beatrice was a tall girl for her age, but it was unusual to have to crouch in any space to avoid collision with the ceiling. As she huddled in the tiny box, she pressed for floor thirteen. Above her head, a voice startlingly answered her request.

"Are you sure you would like Floor Thirteen? Please press the floor button again if yes."

Was Beatrice sure she wanted to visit Floor 13? Something inside Beatrice was unsure. Everything about today was so unsettling; nothing in her life felt real anymore. She refused to believe her siblings lied to her, but so much of Mr. Snicket's writings suggested that they had kept their real lives in secret. The Violet she knew would never tie her hair up in a ribbon because in her memory Violet kept her hair short. Klaus was a voracious reader who always had a bedtime story for Beatrice when she was an infant, but would he ever be so naïve about the Incredibly Deadly Viper? Sunny was virtually unrecognizable: Sunny was an articulate young woman with a full set of teeth, not this incomprehensible two-toothed toddler.

Nothing made sense and it scared Beatrice. Whenever Phil talked about her siblings it was always with a glowing smile of pride. "Your siblings are the bravest, smartest, most caring people I know," he would tell her. "Wherever they are, I'm sure they are doing something good to make sure that you can live a happy life with them. They are just good people."

_They are just good people_. Maybe it was naïve of Beatrice to have held on to that notion so tightly. Yet what else did she have? If R. was lying, if Mr. Snicket was telling lies, could that also mean Phil was untrustworthy? Who was right and who was wrong?

"I repeat, if you would like Floor Thirteen, please press the button again to confirm."

Beatrice closed her eyes and made a fist with her right hand, a habit she kept from childhood. This was her only way to know the truth – her only way of beginning to search for her family. She had relied on the expertise and advice of others too long – people who told her it was right to wait and hope for the best. She needed to take a leap, and that leap began on Floor Thirteen.

The elevator doors opened on a dusty hallway. There were only odd numbered offices on this floor, and as Beatrice made her way down the narrow corridor, it appeared that Mr. Snicket's office was the very last one. Nothing was on the door or nearby wall to indicate who occupied the space. It was just an old oak door and one keyhole.

Suddenly, the door to her right opened. A young looking man in tight pants and a corduroy sweater stood in the entryway. He looked harried, as if someone had just woken him from a midafternoon nap. "Are you Beatrice?" he said skeptically, clearly unbelieving that the twelve year old girl in front of him could possibly be a reporter for an allegedly prestigious newspaper.

"I am, sir. Did you know Mr. Snicket personally? I just have a few questions about his research."

The man raised an eyebrow. "I did know Lemony, and hopefully still _do._ I have worked with him for a few months now."

"You don't think Mr. Snicket is dead?" Beatrice asked, puzzled?

"Not dead the way your paper says he is at least. He was here just this morning, to talk about the first chapters of his next book. He left to interview someone at Mulctuary Money Management about the details."

"What work did you, sorry _do_ you do, with Mr. Snicket?"

"I am his illustrator." The man pointed to a small sign next to his door. It read '_Brett Helquist, Illustrator.' _"I suspect he will be back at the office by the early hours of the morning, he never rests."

"That's fantastic!" Beatrice exclaimed. Mr. Helquist looked surprised by her elation.

"Would you like to come inside? You are welcome to wait until he gets back, I'm just really fiddling with some artwork at this stage."

Beatrice almost shouted 'Yes' at him, but thought better of it. It was already ten minutes to seven, she would barely make it home in time for dinner. She could easily come back in the morning and talk with Mr. Snicket all she wanted about the Baudelaires.

"I..I can't stay right now. But, would I be able to borrow a piece of paper to leave Mr. Snicket a note?"

Mr. Helquist cocked his head. He clearly found this girl strange, but then again, so much of Mr. Snicket's life was strange that it did not faze him too much. He offered Beatrice a pen and his notepad, then went into his kitchen to make a cup of tea.

Beatrice furiously wrote Mr. Snicket a letter explaining who she was and what she hoped they could speak about. Before she knew it, feelings and thoughts were tumbling out of her that she never told _anyone_, not even Phil. However, she was clear minded enough to leave one code – an anagram of Mr. Snicket's name – just to see if he was a member of V.F.D. If Snicket knew V.F.D., he might be able to answer _all _of her questions, including whether her new guardian was to be trusted. She signed off the letter and topped it with the date, then, bidding Mr. Helquist goodnight, slipped the letter under the door, and ran as fast as her legs could carry her back to Winnipeg Mansion.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

As Beatrice stepped off the tram at the station near Winnipeg Mansion, she rehearsed in her head what she would say to R. over dinner. _I don't know if you were aware, _she would gently frame the question, "_but I discovered a book series today about my siblings, the Baudelaires."_ While she was angry at being kept in the dark about Lemony Snicket by seemingly everyone in her life since her family's disappearance, she knew she had to be chary about it, a word which here means "cautious of individuals' dislike of accusations."

As she walked up to the iron gate outside the mansion, she was surprised to see the whole building was dark. Not a single window was illuminated. None of the porch lights were turned on. In the creeping blackness of mid evening, the ivory behemoth looked like an army of shadows, waiting to attack.

"Hello?" Beatrice called out, as she entered the front door. No-one responded. The entryway was a narrow corridor that led to a grand atrium, but even here, inside the mansion, not a sliver of light could be found. Beatrice could barely see anything as she carefully made her way into the heart of the mansion. "R.?" she tried again, "Are you home?"

"In the dining room, darling. Please, do come join me."

The dining room was to the left of the atrium on the first floor, but Beatrice still had to palm the walls to find her way to the door frame leading into the Eastern Wing of the house. She could not, for that matter, remember where any of the light switches were in the house, which might have alleviated the problem. It took the girl nearly three minutes to locate the door knob and enter into the next corridor. Only the scent of freshly cut flowers and roasted potatoes were able to steer her stride as she made her way to dining table.

I once was invited to dinner at the summer home of the Sultan of Brunei. We had a cordial acquaintance and shared a few mutual friends, so I gladly accepted the offer. On the night of the dinner, which the invitation promised would heavily feature birds of prey, I wore an evergreen blazer over a white cotton button down and a pair of tan slacks. I am not one for dressing up, as I frequently have to flee to locations which would drive my dry cleaning bill through the roof, but I would like to think on those occasions that I proverbially 'clean up,' that I look presentable.

Once at the dinner however, I discovered that this was an unapologetic black tie affair. I was the last to arrive, and as such was forced to seat myself at the end of a sea of tuxedos and gowns. Midst the mob of elegance, my attire gave me the appearance of a dwarf tree. Across the table, the Sultan held court, dressed to the nines with a golden turban complimenting his impeccably tailored suit. Each passing minute I felt more and more out of place as the men and women around me completely ignored my presence, totally enthralled with the Sultan.

At long last, the man's gaze turned to face me directly. He gave me a small smile and lifted his glass. "My dear Lemony," he said with a chortle, "did I steal you away from a Park Ranger convention?" In the ensuing laughter, I began to wonder if I had been invited not as a guest, but as the main course of the meal.

I tell this embarrassing story to give you some idea of what is was like for Beatrice to sit at the end of R.'s comically long dining room table that night. Being unprepared for dinner is one of the most anxiety inducing experiences imaginable, but being unprepared for a dinner between you and your potentially disguised guardian, in an empty mansion, _in the dark_ is likely the most anxiety inducing.

At the end of the table, R. looked like a spectral queen. She had a white kimono wrapped around her, with her hair tied up on top of her head, held by a white bone chopstick slicing aggressively on the diagonal. The darkness of the room kept her features and, crucially, her expression in shadow.

"Please Beatrice, sit down. You are very late tonight. I had to start without you I'm afraid."

Beatrice took her place at the end of the table. In front of her was a plate of what she thought might be chicken and potatoes, although this idea really only came from the smell since even her own plate was obscured. "I am sorry R., I was delayed by the trams."

"Did I ask for an excuse?" R. said severely. "Eat up."

Beatrice was stunned at R.'s anger. R. never struck her as someone who could be worked up about anything, let alone lateness. R. herself was frequently late for things, including her own hobby appointments. Beatrice was not hungry, but she cut her chicken and potatoes to give the appearance of eating, if R. could even see her hands from across the table.

"Can I ask why all the lights are out?" Beatrice asked timidly.

"The lights are out because light is out, and dark is in again." R. drawled. "If you spent your time in the city learning about what was fashionable rather than whatever you occupied yourself with today, you would know that."

"Sorry." Beatrice mumbled, although she was most definitely not sorry.

"Now what _did_ you spend your day doing today?" R. asked.

Beatrice tried to enter into her prepared speech, "Well, I was visiting the library today and I don't know if you were aware…"

"Assume I am aware of everything, darling." R. said gravely.

"Yes, well then I guess you did not think much of the books I found today."

"Books!" R. exclaimed, as if the mention of books in a conversation about the public library was somehow incredulous. "Darling, books I assure you are out, out, out. Television is what is in."

"You don't own a television." Beatrice said, frowning.

"Don't be ridiculous Beatrice, I have had one installed in every room in the mansion! There is one in this very dining room; I just have not turned it on since it is more in to have a TV dark rather than light."

_What is ridiculous_ thought Beatrice, _is this conversation. _She pressed on. "Yes, well maybe you have not read the books, but they happen to be about my siblings."

"Oh yes. Your _siblings_." R. almost spat out the last word. "What about them?"

"Well, they are the central characters of these books, written by a Mr. Lemony Snicket. You have heard of him, I presume?"

There was a long pause. Beatrice grew nervous she had been insolent.

"Of course I have heard of 'Mr. Lemony Snicket'" R. said the name in a disgusted mocking voice.

"So you know he was researching the Baudelaires?"

"I do not appreciate your accusatory tone, Beatrice."

"I am not accusing you of anything!" Beatrice said, exasperated, "I just want to know what happened to my siblings, and this man, of whom I never heard until today, the day of his death! I am tired of people treating me like a small child who needs to be shielded from the truth. Without the Baudelaires," at this point she stopped and breathed out, letting her anger deflate. "Without the Baudelaires, I would be an orphan."

"You _are_ an orphan." R. hissed.

Beatrice blinked. "What did you say?"

"Do you not understand you stupid brat? Your siblings are dead. D.E.A.D. Do you really think they would not contact you after all of these years? That they were simply waiting in the wings somewhere, ready to whisk you into their arms? Violet, Klaus, Sunny – they are as dead as your pathetic mother."

Beatrice felt hot tears begin to well up in her eyes. "That's not true, you are lying. You are lying like you have been lying about who you really are!" She had not meant to say it, but there it was.

"Who I really am? Who do you think I really am, _darling_?" R. stood up from her seat.

"Not the Duchess of Winnipeg." Beatrice whispered.

"Bingo! We have a winner." R. – or the woman who Beatrice now definitively knew not to be R. – then stripped off her white kimono and pulled the white chopstick out of her hair. She was suddenly one with the night, a figure almost invisible but very clearly not standing still. Beatrice screamed and leaped out of her seat.

"What do you want with me?" she cried as she quickly moved towards where her memory told her the doorway stood.

"What don't I want with you?" R screeched from not far away. "You are the combination of so many things that I despise, beginning with your precious Baudelaires and the Snickets."

"I never did anything to you!"

"Oh, you might not have done anything, but your mother and your namesake are the top of my list of people who I am happy to know are deep underground."

Beatrice was in the atrium by this time. She still could not see an inch in front of her and time was running out. This woman wanted her dead, that much was very clear. Beatrice's only option was escape, it was too dark to try and fight. She ran right towards the wall. She slammed into it sooner than she expected, then slid her way left. She moved so fast that she nearly fell over once her shoulder no longer touched wall, but caught herself just in time.

"Do you think I won't find you darling?" R.'s favorite word now held an utterly terrifying edge to it. Beatrice was almost at the door. Suddenly, a light went on behind her. She turned to see R. standing in the atrium entryway, clad only in a black bodysuit. She was backlit by the atrium, and in her hand she held a very large knife.

"Ready to join your siblings, Beatrice?"

Beatrice lunged for the doorknob. R. was running toward her, but Beatrice dared not to look back. She opened the door and hurled herself around the corner. She was just in time. The knife whizzed past her side and into the street. Beatrice did not waist a second. She ran directly at the fallen weapon, grabbing it just as R. came out the door. Sprinting, she hit the front gate with full force, throwing herself into the street.

A car nearly collided with the girl. Beatrice slammed on the windshield. "Let me in!" she cried to the driver. The woman behind the wheel looked stunned. Beatrice grabbed the passenger door and pulled it open before the driver had time to react. R. was at the gate. "Please, just drive!" she pleaded with the woman, a small elderly lady. The woman acquiesced. The car jolted forward. R's body hit the trunk and she slammed on it but the driver kept going. "Go, go, don't stop!" Beatrice cried.

The car swerved down Winnipeg Boulevard, turning right at the intersection and straight on towards the city. Beatrice watched the back of the car until she was certain that R. was out of sight, although she knew it would only be moments before R. hopped in her own car to pursue.

"Little girl," the elderly woman said with clenched teeth, "What in the name of Christopher Columbus is going on?"

"I'm sorry to drag you into this mam, but that woman is trying to kill me."

"That woman? Was that not the Winnipeg Mansion you just came out of? Who was she?"

"I don't really know." Beatrice said truthfully, "But she's after me."

"Look, young lady but I…I can't help you." The driver swerved again, pulling off the main road into The City and down a side street. "I have a family to worry about, I do not know what on Earth…"

"That's fine!" Beatrice shouted, making the driver bounce in her seat. "Can you just drive me to…to…" Beatrice struggled to think where she could go. Then, suddenly, it clicked.

"Can you drive me to Dim Avenue?"

"Who is it?" Brett's voice came out of the buzzer like a breath of fresh air. Beatrice was afraid that Brett would have gone home by now, but thankfully he was still in the office.

"It's Beatrice Baudelaire. Please, can you let me up, it's an emergency!"

The door immediately clicked open. Beatrice rushed into the building and up to the thirteenth floor. Brett was waiting outside of his office door with another cup of tea in his hands.

"Please Mr. Helquist, you have to help me; there is a crazy woman who wants to kill me!"

Mr. Helquist's eyebrows rose, but he made no move to welcome Beatrice in.

"Before I do anything, you need to explain yourself. You told me this afternoon that you were a reporter for _The Daily Punctilio._ Now you are telling me you are a Baudelaire? Specifically, _Beatrice_ Baudelaire? Beatrice Baudelaire is an adult, but more importantly, Beatrice Baudelaire is dead."

"Look, I'm sorry I lied, but I did not know if I could trust you and I…I did not honestly know anything about Mr. Snicket besides the fact he wrote books about my siblings. But, please Mr. Helquist you have to help me, I'm really in trouble. The Beatrice Baudelaire who is dead is my siblings, or, really, my adopted siblings' mother. I was named after her, but I am actually the daughter of Kit Snicket, who might be a relation of Mr. Snicket. I know this is all really confusing and I don't really understand any of it myself, but now my guardian, who I thought was the Duchess of Winnipeg, is out to kill me in some crazy revenge plot."

"How do I know you are not lying now? That is a pretty far-fetched story."

"I don't know how you would know! I'm sorry I just really, really need –"

"_Here where the world is quiet._"

Beatrice stopped bouncing on her toes. Did she hear correctly? "_Here, where all trouble seems?_"

"_Dead winds' and spent waves' riot_"

"_In doubtful dreams of dreams."_

"_I watch the green field growing"_

"_For reaping folk and sowing,_

"_For harvest-time and mowing,"_

"_A sleepy world of streams!" _Beatrice beamed at the last line of the stanza, thoroughly impressed in herself for remembering these lines in such a tumultuous moment. Brett looked equally impressed.

"Come inside."

Brett sat Beatrice down on the couch with a cup of warm tea. Beatrice was still far too anxious to really want to drink anything, but Brett insisted she sip on something to help calm her down.

"Forgive me for before, Beatrice. When you asked to speak with Lemony, I thought you might have been a spy for the other organization he is always running away from. Lemony told me that should I ever meet with someone claiming to be an associate or friend of his that I should use that poem as a key."

"So Mr. Snicket is a member of V.F.D.?" Beatrice asked excitedly.

Brett shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know what V.F.D. is. To be honest, I don't really know much about Mr. Snicket's personal life. We have a great working relationship because Mr. Snicket knows that I'm not exactly the most 9-5 person in the world." Brett laughed, "As I'm sure you can tell from the fact that I basically live here in my office."

"So, Mr. Snicket just gives you his writing and you illustrate it?"

"More or less. I barely speak with him because he's so busy; more often than not I receive packages from his associate, Daniel Handler. He's a barrister downtown; he might be someone you want to speak with about Lemony's current whereabouts."

"I thought you said he was out doing research today?"

"Well, that is what he told me this morning. Then, a few hours after you left, I went to talk to him about you and the letter you left. I found a note on my front door and an envelope. He left me this." Brett pulled from under his grey t-shirt a necklace with a copper key attached. "It is the key to his office. I guess with news of his death, he realized he had a strategic advantage when it came to interviews – everyone believes _The Punctilio_, so they would likely have no squabbles talking to him since the 'disgraced journalist' Lemony Snicket is dead."

Brett flopped himself down on his couch. "It is all a little too much. I just draw pictures for books."

"There is no line between fine art and illustration; there is no high or low art; there is only art, and it comes in many forms."

Brett smiled. "Very profound little girl. Well, I guess I am now the guardian of Mr. Snicket's office. I should take a look inside, I guess. Would you like to look with me? Maybe we can find out where your siblings are."

"I would very much like that Mr. Helquist."

Brett waved his hand at her while he stifled a yawn with the other. "Please, call me Brett. Mr. Helquist is the name I go by when I'm trying to impress someone, and you are far more impressive than I am."

The duo walked out of Brett's office into the hallway, where Brett tried Mr. Snicket's door with the copper key. It took a bit of effort, but after a few pushes, the door opened to reveal the author's chambers.

Beatrice was stunned. It was a small room with floor to ceiling windows looking out across the city. From the outside, it was not clear how tall 346 Dim Avenue was, but from this view, Beatrice could see over the tops of Obfuscated Avenue, Midday Avenue, Dawn Avenue and straight on to Morning Clarity Lane. It was this street which caught her attention immediately, for straight in the center of the window's sights was an empty, barren plot of land. A grand house must have stood there at one time, a mansion to rival the size and grandeur of the Duchess of Winnipeg. The buildings on either side of the lot looked pristine and new, as if they had been partially rebuilt when their neighbor had disappeared. Yet, nothing was in the lot but what Beatrice could just make out to be scattered wood and ashes.

"Beatrice?"

Beatrice whipped around. Brett was standing behind her with a sad smile. "You might want to take a look at this."

Brett was pointing at a map on the wall above Mr. Snicket's writing desk. It was a map of the City and its surrounding provinces, expanding as far as the Mortmain Mountains. Dotted across the map were pins, seemingly following the progress of the Baudelaires, beginning with The City (where Snicket had a flag reading "Baudelaire Mansion," to a house in the outskirts of town ("Count Olaf's home") to a pin far, far, outside of the City near a location marked only "Horseradish Factory" ("Dr. Montgomery Montgomery's home). There was only one other pin labeled: a pin in the center of a town bordering Lachrymose Lake. The pin read "J. and I.'s home" and had an address underneath.

"This must be where Mr. Snicket has gone next!" Beatrice exclaimed.

"Quite possibly. Lemony did mention needing to get wet weather clothing to battle sea breezes."

Beatrice scribbled down the address on a piece of Mr. Snicket's stationery and shoved it in her pocket. She pulled it right back out when she had a sudden burst of inspiration.

"I know what I'm going to do," she said aloud, more to herself than to Brett. "I'll write Mr. Snicket a letter telling him I'm coming, and then I'll mail it and head out to Lachrymose Lake tomorrow. If he left only a few hours ago then I should be right behind him."

"That sounds like a very brave plan Beatrice. How are you going to get yourself to Lachrymose Lake though?"

Beatrice frowned. She had not considered that detail.

"I could bike?"

"To Lachrymose Lake?" Brett shook his head. He bit his lip and looked around the office.

"I could drive you, I guess. I cannot let you get in any more danger, I feel personally responsible for you now."

"Would you really?"

Brett smiled, "What else do I have to do? Sleep on my couch and drink tea all day, waiting for some mysterious package? Look at you Beatrice. You survived attempted murder tonight! What have I done this week, heck, what have I done in my life that compares to that?"

Beatrice wanted to note that 'surviving attempted murder' was perhaps not an enviable moment of her life, but she knew better than to rebuff an offer like this.

"Write your letter to Mr. Snicket, I'll pack some clothes and snacks, then we can take off tomorrow at first light. How does that sound?"

Beatrice nodded her head gratefully. "It sounds wonderful. Thank you Mr. Helqu-, I mean, thank you Brett. This really means a lot to me."

Brett patted the girl on the shoulder and made his way out of the room, back to his office. Beatrice let out a deep sigh, pulled another piece of stationary from Mr. Snicket's writing drawer, and began her letter.

It was nearly two in the morning by the time she finished. She sealed the envelope up and put it in the pocket of her dress. Letting out a big yawn, she made her way to the doorway. She stopped and took one last look around the room. It made her happy, whoever this man was, that he cared enough about her siblings that he wanted to share their story with the world. It made her life seem less small, less isolated. She smiled and walked into the hallway, locking the door behind her.

"Well, that was easier than I expected."

Beatrice's blood turned cold. She slowly turned from the door lock to see her worst nightmare in front of her.

"How lovely to see you again Beatrice, darling." R. stood directly in front of the staircase, right near the elevator doors. She still had her black bodysuit on, but now she was wearing black stiletto heels, sharpened to knife points. At second glance, Beatrice realized they _were_ knives, with very deadly blades.

"I knew you would come here. I knew I could count on Kit Snicket's sniveling daughter to come crawling to her uncle's office. You should never have mentioned those stupid books, little girl. Never leave all your cards on the table." R. looked positively blood thirsty.

"Let me give you a few quick facts. Lemony Snicket is a loser. He never could stop Olaf and I when we were a team, and he certainly could not stop me from murdering all of his precious friends once Olaf was gone. Starting with his precious Duchess of Winnipeg."

"When Olaf left me on that burning roof at the Hotel Denouement, our love was over. Little did I know that conniving snake in the grass had already tired of me, having a torrid affair with your sick bitch of a mother. Well comeuppance got them both, didn't it?"

"I spent my entire life in awe of a man who was nothing but a sham. I took care of that horrible child, Carmelita Spats, because I thought we could raise a _family_ together, can you believe that? Who was I kidding, though. I don't have a maternal bone in my entire body."

"I am Esme Gigi Genevieve Squalor, sixth most important real estate agent in The City and heiress. I am the only survivor of O.F.D. and I am the true winner of this godforsaken _schism_."

Esme reached down, never breaking eye contact with Beatrice, and lifted off one of her shoes. "And now, I have the distinct pleasure of removing the last link to the mistakes of my past. The daughter of my ex-lover's mistress, and namesake to the woman who first tried to stand in my way."

Beatrice readied herself to duck when the blade came flying. She could not slip past this woman, not in such a small passageway. It was too late to go back in the office. Beatrice swallowed. _I'm doomed_.

At moments like this, in a novel about a young heroine like Beatrice, an author would normally find a way to use a theatrical device known as "deus ex machina" to save the day. The deus ex machine is literally "the ghost in the machine," an ethereal, almost otherworldly solution to the problem at hand. Maybe the ceiling would spontaneously collapse on Esme, knocking her unconscious. Maybe a tornado of sharks would choose that exact moment to fall on Dim Avenue, ripping through the office building. Maybe Esme would suffer from a crippling aneurysm, falling and allowing Beatrice a moment to escape.

In moments like this however, what happens in the real world is more often that people are not rescued by some freak storm or biological defect. The people in peril die at the hands of the villainous. The good does not beat the bad. The victors are the evil.

Yet as Beatrice ducked to avoid the knife, neither she, nor Esme, could have anticipated the very un-deus ex machine reality of the floor's bathroom being directly opposite the elevator doors.

Brett Helquist threw himself out of the bathroom just as Esme reared back her hand to throw the knife. He hit Esme with the full force of his lean but substantive frame throwing her against the rail of the staircase. Esme tried desperately to grab hold of something, but she fell back as the blade of her other stiletto caught in the carpet. Brett lifted her leg and threw the woman up and over.

The staircase to 346 Dim Avenue was a wide spiral, with a shaft of empty space leading directly down the middle to the ground floor. Esme Squalor tumbled in the air, screaming all the way down, till a loud crunch could be heard from below. Beatrice stared in stunned silence at Brett, who was looking down at an assuredly dead real estate agent.


End file.
